White Pine (2 page)

Ma set her napkin on the table and moved to
stand up.

“No please, don't get up,” Watters declared
as he placed his hat back on his head. “I'll see myself out. My
greetings and good wishes to your husband." He stood there for a
minute, eyeing me as if he wanted to say something else but
couldn't think of how to put it.

I don’t know what took hold of me, but then I
smarted off, "You won't see me back in that schoolhouse. I may like
workin’ up north."

"Sevy," Ma snapped and I knew that I'd get it
later. As for Watters, he just looked like I'd slapped him one.

“Have a good evening.” He sorta bowed his
head to Ma, then left.

Funny, I’d always thought that smartin' off
to him would feel good. But it didn't. I felt kind of guilty, that
school teacher had looked right sad when I told him I wouldn't be
back.

Chapter Two

~ Preparations ~

I wasn't supposed to head north until the
weather began to cool. So, for two more weeks, I stayed at home and
helped my ma. Pa was like a bear with a thorn in his paw. But when
I wasn't working hard, I was dreamin' about what it was going to be
like up in the Northwoods, so I didn't mind much. On a Saturday
just before I was set to leave, Ma gave me some money to buy some
necessaries for myself for the winter.

I made a point of going by the MacLean Tavern
on Barstow. The tavern, a narrow store front, was owned by Hugh’s
uncle, but Hugh worked there a lot. Sure enough, as the door
opened, letting in fresh air, I glimpsed him inside sweeping the
floor. Hugh was a tall skinny kid with light reddish hair and green
eyes. His folks were from Ireland, and the Irish and the Norwegian
folk in Eau Claire didn't tend to mix much. But Hugh was my best
friend and had been since we were eight years old when we'd met at
school.

“Hey Hugh, want to do some shopping with me?”
I called out, feeling real important.

His eyes got big and he almost dropped his
broom. “
Dia duit
. Let me check with my uncle.”

Mr. MacLean said Hugh had to finish up his
cleaning chores. With me helping him, though, we were done in no
time.

“You think that we’ll have enough left over
for some penny candy?” Hugh asked as we headed down the street. We
stayed off the wooden boards of the sidewalk, leaving it for the
ladies and the rich gents who cared about getting their boots
dirty. It had rained the night before, and the sawdust which was
always all over everything had soaked the water up and now stuck to
our shoes and pants. Eau Claire had a well-earned reputation as a
sawdust city. You could even taste the pine in the air.

“Guess who’s been asking after you at
school,” Hugh teased.

I didn’t want to seem too interested, that
would be just what Hugh wanted and it ain’t the Norwegian way. I
might have been only half Norwegian—my Ma was born in the United
States and her folks were from Sweden to start—but we were not like
the Irish folks. They’d tell anyone just about anything.

“Dunno,” I lied.

“A girl,” he said, “and a pretty one.”

“Your sister Margaret?”

He punched me in the arm hard for that.
“Meg’s eighteen and engaged to the baker’s assistant. You know
that. This particular girl has been asking how come you ain’t at
school no more.”

That got my attention. There was one
particular girl who’d caught my eye. Adelaide was her name and she
had thick, shiny blond hair and the bluest eyes you ever saw. I
don’t think we’d ever said more to each other than “Hello.” But
sometimes when I was answering one of Mr. Watters’ questions or
reciting in class, I’d look over at her and then she’d blush and
look down at her book. I thought maybe she liked me, a little,
too.

“Carrie Winters. Why she stopped me just the
other day and asked what you were up to.”

I turned to glare at my friend. “Carrie
Winters,” I repeated incredulously. “She’s as mean and cantankerous
as a mule.”

“She has a twinkle in her eye for you.”

“No, she doesn’t. You’re just making fun.”
Hugh wanted me to beg him, but I wasn’t going to give him the
satisfaction. He wouldn’t be able to keep it from me – he was just
bustin’ to tell me. We strolled down Menomonie Street until we
arrived at Whiteside’s General Store. I swung the door wide and
gestured him in.

Whiteside’s was one of those stores that had
just about anything a fella could think of wanting. Whenever Ma or
Pa came in, they were always looking for something specific, a tool
or utensil, maybe some cloth. Then, us kids would wander through
the aisles, taking it all in, our eyes wide with wonder. There were
smells in there, too: nutmeg and ginger, tobacco, and the ever
present pine. Whiteside’s had so many things that I wanted, like
store-bought fishing rods. Hugh and I used ones we’d made for
fishing the Chippewa River. For the longest time, my sister had had
her eye on a china doll and my brother, on a rifle he wanted to use
for turkey hunting.

But this time, going in was different – I was
an actual customer with money to buy things. I sauntered right up
to the counter where they stocked the penny candy and said, “Where
do you keep the gear for the lumberjacks?”

“Back up against the wall, son,” Augie
Whiteside, a big man with a huge black handlebar mustache directed
me. “You’re looking for the Nor and Blum goods. What size is your
father?”

From behind me, I heard Hugh snort.

“We’re shopping for me, not for my Pa. I’m
going to be a lumberjack with the Daniel Shaw Lumber Company.” I
stood up straight then so that he could see how tall I was. I was
taller than most men, had been since I was twelve, and now at
fourteen I wasn’t scrawny like Hugh. I’d always been thicker set
and strong, but Ma said I had a “baby-face” that made me look
young. I took after my Ma with her blond hair and brown eyes. I
wished I took more after Pa, though. He was big, strong as an ox
and his face was tough looking.

Mr. Whiteside eyed me up and down
skeptically. “Most boys your age at the lumber camps work as
cookees. They need different gear than the jacks. You sure you’re
not signed up to be a cookee?”

“No, I’m gonna be a sawyer.” I didn’t dare to
voice my real ambition which was to be a top loader. Everyone in a
sawdust city like Eau Claire knew that the top loaders were the
royalty of the logging camp, and there was no chance that any
self-respecting Push would let a wet-behind-the-ears fourteen year
old do that job.

“A sawyer, all right then.” He shook his
head. “Well, let’s get you outfitted, young man. You’ll need a
union suit, some wool shirts, pants, socks, caps, and a heavy
coat—unless you already have one of those?”

For a moment, I wished I could say that I
would take all of it, even the coat. Ma had told me to pick out
what I needed and had given me the money for it. But then I
pictured Marta, Peter, Pa, and, most of all, Ma, and how tired her
face had been looking lately. She was taking in mending for some of
the men who worked at the mill, but that didn’t bring in hardly any
money. It was going to be a hard winter for them.

“No.” I shook my head. “I can use my Pa’s
coat.”

We went to the back aisle of the store, where
anything and everything that a lumberjack could need was sold. Mr.
Whiteside was right helpful while I picked out my gear.

When we were about done, Hugh and I stopped
up at the front counter. There were some fine-looking knives all
set out under the glass, including Bowie knives, hunting knives,
and some woodcarving knives. I wasn’t there to buy a knife. But you
know how it is when you have money in your pocket and you’re ready
to spend some of it, you look at all sorts of things that you
really aren’t interested in buying.

There was one knife in particular that caught
my eye. I asked Mr. Whiteside, “Can I see that one?”

He reached under the counter, pulled it out
and handed it to me. It was a Jim Bowie blasé, about eight inches
long and about two inches wide. I ran my forefinger and thumb along
the steel of the blade.

Hugh whistled low.

I heard a low chuckle from behind me. “Too
much blade for a boy,” an accented voice broke in.

Irritated, I glanced around to see a
dark-haired man with a lean, tanned face. His hair was longish and
tied back. His shaven cheeks were darkly shadowed and he had bright
blue eyes that were laughing at me. He was a big fella with arms
like ham hocks. His chest was broad and his legs, thick, and he
stood with them wide apart. His shirt was a bright and bold red,
and he carried himself with confidence. My father would have said
that he was a man who was comfortable in his own skin. I knew that
I was looking at a real woodsman, a lumberjack.

“I’m headed up north,” I remarked. “You can
run into all sorts of wild animals in the woods. This here knife
might come in handy.”

“You gonna gut a black bear with that knife,
boy? Or maybe a badger?” He laughed out loud, baring big, white
teeth. He had one of those deep laughs that seemed to echo through
the cluttered store.

I looked around, worried that other people
would hear how he was poking fun at me.

“Hey, Augie, this boy, he is something.” The
newcomer was a Quebecois, French Canadian. My pa had had several
fellas from those parts to supper over the years, so I recognized
the accent.

I saw that Mr. Whiteside was chuckling,
too.

“You never can be too careful,” I
mumbled.

Hugh rolled his eyes.

“A black bear is more afraid of you than you
are of him,” the French Canadian continued. Then, he reached over
and, without a by-your-leave, took that blade right out of my hand.
“And badgers...” He gave an expressive shrug. “They are fierce. If
you are close enough to a badger to touch it with a knife, it had
better be dead or in a trap.”

“I was looking at that knife.”

The laughter went from his face just like
that, and he looked at me hard. “Are you buying it?”

“Uh, no. I mean, I don’t know.”

“Augie, throw the blade in with my other
things.”

“What I meant was I hadn’t decided,” I
protested. I didn’t like this fella coming in and running me
over.

“I am doing you a favor,” the man responded.
“Now you will not cut yourself.” He ran a finger across his throat
demonstratively. “I will pick it all up in the morning, Augie. You
have it ready?”

“Yes, it’ll all be ready, Fabien.”

“Well then,
À bientôt
. I have plans
for this evening, so do not be expecting me early.” He clapped Mr.
Whiteside on the back, and, without another glance at me, strode
out of the store, whistling.

“Do you know who that was?” Hugh’s eyes were
wide with admiration.

“Fabien Roget,” Whiteside said. “Some say
he’s the best riverman on the Chippewa.”

“Yeah, well maybe I’ll be a river rat, too,
come spring,” I announced, lifting my chin high. That Roget might
be bigger and older, but that didn’t make him a better man than
me.

Augie chuckled, clearly dismissing that
possibility.

“Could I see that knife again?” I asked. It
was such a fine looking blade, new, without a nick in it. Of
course, we’d never had one like it. I would be nice just once to
have something shining and new that I didn't really need. I could
just see myself as a lumberjack, working the pines, with that
trusty knife strapped to my side.

Mr. Whiteside shook his head. “No. You heard
him – Mr. Roget’s buying this one. If you’re interested in a knife,
I can show you some others.”

I shook my head. “Nah.” The truth was I
didn’t have the money for any knife. In a way, Roget had let me off
the hook. I mighta bought it had he not come in. The money that I
earned this winter would be going to my family. But, I promised
myself, if I had any left over, I would come right back here and
buy myself a knife just like Roget’s.

Mr. Whiteside began to add up my purchases.
“It should be quite a winter for logging. I’ve heard talk that the
lumber companies are gonna try and send a couple-million yards of
board feet down the Chippewa this spring. Wouldn’t that be
something?”

I tried to make my response sound like I was
in the know. “I don’t know if Half Moon or Dell’s Pond can hold
that much timber.”

“Which outfit will you be working for again,
young man?”

“The Daniel Shaw Lumber Company,” I said it
proudly, well-respected outfit it was. “Just like my Pa.”

“Who’s your father, boy?” Mr. Whiteside
asked.

“Gustav Andersen,” I said. “He’s one of the
best sawyers in these parts.”

“Gus Andersen? I heard tell that your father
was hurt in an accident at the mill.”

“Broke his leg bad. But Doc Foster says he
should get better. The leg’s set. Now he just has to give it time.”
I’d heard Ma and Pa talking late at night when they thought we were
sleeping. I knew that they were worried Pa’s leg might not heal
right. If he was lame or worse, he would have a hard time going
back to lumberjacking.